Surviving the Weekend of Doom

Weeks ago, when I first noticed this past weekend on my calendar, I raised an eyebrow.  And when that plus the subsequent glare of suspicion didn’t clear away any of the events squeezed onto those two blocks of dates, I shuddered.

Saturday: 1 overnight Cub Scout campout + 1 Little League baseball game + 1 overnight sleepover event for Princess Puddinette.

Sunday: Pack up and return from camping + 1 family First Communion party locally + 1 simultaneous family First Communion party 90 miles away.

Those are just the events, too.  That doesn’t include all the typical stuff that keeps the modern family moving forward instead of devolving into a dirty, stinky, 21st-century version of “Sanford and Son”.  You know, cleaning, laundry, bathing, etc.  Sure, sure, when you’re a 20-something bachelor living alone, if you miss a week of laundry and let the living room go without a dusting for another week, you’re not asking for much trouble.

But when you add four kids, a dog, and a spouse whom you still can’t believe was willing to overlook the general state of filth you lived in when you first met, that doesn’t really fly any more.

So, anyway, that was my weekend.  At first glance, I thought it was enough to make even the shiniest, happiest person weep.  But, hold on, there, Chuck, that’s not all! As an added bonus, all that outdoor camping and baseball fun on Saturday afternoon included, free of charge!, the occasionally bucketful of rain as well as a 15-degree drop in the ambient outdoor temperature.

Now, one would think that a measurable amount of rain would perhaps simplify things somewhat by postponing the baseball game.  But noooooo.  The rain arrived strategically, just spaced out enough so as to ensure that somehow we could enjoy the cool, comforting sensation of soaking-wet socks while taking in four hours of little league in an invigorating 43-degree breeze.

And then I got to sleep on the ground.

But hey, I shouldn’t complain. I suppose the ground could have been harder; it was, after all, you know, sodden.

The good news is that we made it through our gauntlet of a weekend, sanity still largely intact.  The scouts had a blast camping—rain or no rain, the baseball game was won, and my daughter had more fun at the sleepover than she could shake a My Little Pony at.  And after the Communion parties were celebrated and the weekend chores largely done, we all collapsed pretty much where we stood and gave a great, collective sigh.

There may have been napping.

The only one a little worse for wear is me, still a bit tired two days later, and more sore than I’d care to admit as sleeping in a tent apparently leaves one a bit stiff in the neck and shoulders at my age.  Sure, I might have called in Exhausted this morning, were that really an option, but then, this isn’t France.  So I dragged myself from bed, feeling what can only be described as a bit hungover, which is supremely unfair as I’d done nothing over the past 48 hours to deserve it.

Which brings us to today’s lesson: when you reach a point like this in life where you have to stoically persevere through the Weekend of Doom, you might as well set aside some time on Sunday evening to tie on one.

Probably earlier on Sunday rather than later, though, since, you know, you won’t be staying awake long.

Either way, if you’re going to be stuck feeling the hangover, you might as well get to enjoy the fun part of that too.

Now, can someone please pass me the Icy-Hot?